


12 November 1963

by yesterdaisy_______57



Category: Real Person Fiction, The Beatles (Band)
Genre: 1963, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, MBG (May Become Gross), Sweet, closeness, day by day
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-08-16 23:02:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16504472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yesterdaisy_______57/pseuds/yesterdaisy_______57
Summary: A retelling of the Day By Day incident 55 years ago and what happened afterwards.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Hollow Men](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/429929) by edgertonpark. 



> I’m not really sure why I am writing this, but I have been for a few years and I now have quite a few scattered chapters, with several drafts of each. I thought I’d start posting them today as it is the 55th anniversary of the day it started.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

It was Armistice Day, 1963. The Beatles were sitting quietly (well-- for the most part) around in the hotel suite; George had unplugged his electric guitar and was fiddling with chords and spur-of-the-moment guitar solos. John and Ringo were enjoying a game of cards on the rug while Paul watched them, kneeling with a cup of tea and a headache. The sky had recently gone dark and they had just finished listening to a broadcast on Swedish radio on which they had played. All had agreed that despite the copious amounts of speaker feedback, the music itself sounded all right.

‘Well, lads,’ said Paul, standing up, ‘I think I’ll turn in.’ He drained his mug and set it down. John looked up from his cards.

‘Already?’

‘He’s got an headache, haven’t you, Paul?’ Ringo pointed out. ‘Best get some rest -- you’ll be better in the morning if you sleep.’

‘You  _ would _ know, wouldn’t you, Rings!’

‘Right.’ Paul laughed at John and raised a hand to the three of them. ‘See you all in the morning, then.’ They heard the door close behind him.

\------

Paul was thrust into consciousness from an immediately forgotten dream, curled on his side with the covers thrown off. He could feel his body shaking and his nerves awake, on end; damp sweat inhabited every crevice he could feel. It felt as though he’d just escaped some terror, as if he’d stopped running and simply dropped onto the bed from miles above in the sky. He breathed for a moment and felt his slick face, mopping his cheek with a damp sleeve.

He opened his eyes and without warning there started up that massive pounding inside his head. Flinching, he instinctively closed them again, but it made no difference. Last night’s raging had evidently been set on remaining.

Paul let out a resigned breath and slowly sat up, getting out of bed to see if a glass of water wouldn’t do him any good. Tiptoeing around Ringo’s bed (from which snores emanated in rhythmic perfection), Paul stubbed his toe, swore and froze, waiting for any reaction from the sleeping drummer. After a few seconds of silence -- well, snores -- it seemed the coast was clear. He ground the tip of his throbbing toe into the carpet and then reached the door to the outer suite. The kitchen was just to the left, on the way to John and George’s room, and Paul wound his way through a couple of chairs to reach the water pitcher. Clunking the heavy vessel onto the table as soon as the water was poured, he immediately began to drink. The water felt good on his tongue: fresh, and cool but not so cold as would aggravate his headache. He took a few gulps; then, feeling quite awake, he made his way back through to the centre room so as to look out the windows.

The suite was rather high up from the ground, though he did not recall exactly the floor number, and from a distance Paul could just see the edge of the ocean to the south. In the east the sun was beginning to poke up, and he sipped from the water glass and watched for a while as it rose in the sky. Soon, however, it was becoming distracting to notice the stomping pain in his head. Achy stiffness had begun to spread through his body, his back sore and legs cramping minisculely. Paul grimaced at the sensation of a sore throat which seemed to have developed during the course of the sunrise. He drank again and this time could feel the rawness at the back of his throat; he looked up at the ceiling, eyes watering. Ill, as it turned out. Paul had suspected something might have been approaching last night, but he hadn’t wanted to acknowledge it. However, this morning things were only worse and with reluctance, he had to let in to himself and admit sickness.

As they were on a busy tour, however, Paul had no intention of bothering the others or Brian with such a confession. It was bad enough to admit to himself, but he didn’t think he could stand telling the others. He didn’t want to risk the possibility that anyone would stop the show -- it couldn’t be  _ that  _ bad -- and if he was sure no one would do so, then what was the use of complaining if there was to be no consequence? It would only worry the others, and they might hold him to lower standards than usual -- and then he  _ would _ do worse and it would be a whole awful chain of things. Best to remain airtight about the whole business, really. If he let something out then it would be more likely that more would come; as it was, however, Paul stood a good chance of feeling all right a good while and hoping it passed. He knew he could hold himself more unapologetically to high standards than the others could, seeing as they all cared so much for each other. It would be a shame for him to let them down this way, when John had done the whole  _ Please Please Me  _ LP dead ill and with gallons of milk down his throat too!

Having made up his mind, Paul took a reassuring deep breath and turned back into his and Ringo’s room. Back by his luggage, he pulled a dark grey pair of trousers, pants, tie, shirt, socks and pull-over from the case. His pyjamas came down around his ankles and carefully, silently, he pulled on the bottoms. A intake of breath caught the raw part of his throat and he winced, swallowing deliberately to keep from making noise. His chest felt cold as he replaced the warm pyjama shirt with a thinner white shirt, which he’d only begun to button when a fit of coughs surprised him; he doubled over, feeling as though he might hack his own throat onto the floor (and wondering what that might look like). He was just gasping for air when he heard a stirring. Ringo was awake.

Paul seized his glass of water from the bedside chair, feeling his chest calm down as Ringo rolled over sleepily and gazed blankly at him.

‘Are you doing all right?’ he asked finally.

‘Oh, sorry, Rings,’ Paul said offhandedly, cough-chortling, ‘didn't mean to wake you. Go back to sleep, la. Water down the wrong pipe, that's all.’

Ringo appeared to disregard this and sat up on his elbows concernedly. A strand of his hair lay out of place across the top of his head. 'Paul, that sounded bad,’ he said. ‘You all right?'

'I told you,’ insisted Paul, after a hasty sip of water, 'I just had a mishap drinking, Rings. Don't worry your arse about it.'

But the door was cracking open and John and George ambled curiously in, bed mussed and sleepy. Paul’s heart sank.

John’s drowsy brown eyes were fixed incredulously on their drummer. 'Ring, it sounds like you just coughed up your lungs on a golden throne. Why is it that you're not dead yet? Have you got another pair?'

'That was Paul.'

'Get off, ya prick! I thought you were getting better—'

'It was! I swear it! Tell him Paul, wasn't that you who's gone and woke the inn up now?'

John turned and looked straight at Paul.

'John, I was just sort of drinking water and it went down the wrong way is all, there's no need really to make a big fuss about it.' Paul set the empty glass down and scratched his nose. 'Sorry, y’know, if I took time off your beauty sleep.'

George, who had been watching him closely, cleared his throat abruptly and looked around. 'I think, so long as we're up anyway we might as well get some breakfast,' he said. 'Don't you think, John?'

John nodded jerkily at Paul and then turned away on his heel, shouting, 'Eggs!' He was gone in a moment and George followed, saying something about early morning and volume. Paul caught his own name in John's reply.

He hesitated and went back to buttoning up his shirt. Ringo shuffled out of bed from across the room and started pulling his own clothes out as Paul finished and put on a tie. He sat down, slipped on some socks, and wiped his face, which was sweating despite the cold morning. Paul shivered for a second and threw on the jumper, then walked slowly to the door, pausing to open it till their drummer had at least some pants on. John and George were milling about in the little hotel kitchen, with several eggs in a pan and a teakettle over heat.

'Shall I make toast?' Paul asked lightly, taking out several pieces of bread. George nodded and John mumbled some assent and left the room. Paul dropped the bread onto a pan and started to cook them. When John came back with glasses in his breast pocket Paul was getting out plates from a cupboard he'd just found.

\------

The sun was shining brightly through the kitchen window by the time everyone had settled and the jam and milk were out and everyone had a cuppa and some toast. John had on his glasses behind a local newspaper, lounging in a stiff wooden chair as if it were a comfortable hammock and munching on some toast covered with seedy raspberry jam. Paul squeezed through the space behind him and found a seat next to George, who had made an egg buttie for himself and was looking into it. Paul looked contemplatively into his own mug of tea and swirled it, suddenly having lost his appetite entirely.

'Has the tea gone already, lads?' Ringo asked the room at large. John, who was on his fourth cup, made a gleeful, impish face at Paul and turned back to his newspaper.

'Here,' said Paul, standing up, 'have mine. I don't much fancy a cuppa right now.' Ringo took it and thanked him, sitting down.

Paul took his seat as well and had to swallow an immediate gag from smelling the eggs. Sweating again, he bit his lip and tried not to smell anything, ducking his head. Feeling eyes on him, Paul looked up to see Ringo looking questioningly at him--  _ why don't you eat? _ \-- and he reluctantly picked up his fork, putting his aching head into the palm of his right hand as he speared an egg and dropped it again, insides shivering nauseatingly. Stomach flipping, he dropped the fork to take a small sip of water, then pushed his eggs around a bit on the plate, holding his breath. After a while his stomach clenched violently and he barely stifled a jerk and a moan. Feeling a cold sweat break out, Paul stood up hastily to dump his plate out, unable to bear it any longer.

'Paul, what're you doing?' asked John after a second.

Paul turned briefly and glanced at him. 'I'm not hungry, that's all,' he shrugged casually, turning back to the sink.

'You're a daft fool,' retorted John. Paul sighed and dropped his fork into the bucket of soapy water. He wasn't ready for an argument with John now. 'I'm serious, Paul, you'll be all weak at the knees like somebody's dear old grandma if you don't eat up, lad. Come on, keep the toast, will you? For me?'

'He's got a point, you know,' added George, voice slow and enunciated Liverpool. Paul swallowed and turned back around to his seat, the toast in one hand.

John was already back in his newspaper, but Paul could sense he was being monitored. He rubbed his nose a little self-consciously and cleared his throat. Feeling a little better with the lack of squelchy eggs, he nibbled reluctantly on the edge of the toast, attempting to not gag.

An eternity of munching and sipping had pushed the slender minute hand on their hotel clock forward ten minutes, and Paul had managed to get down half the slice of toast while John finished his last cup of tea, giggling madly over something Ringo had remarked. George brushed past Paul on his way back from the sink to wash his own plate, pulling him back out of an oblivious stupor. Paul jumped and dropped the toast quickly and George looked at him, a worried look coming into his eyes after a second.

'Paul?'

'What?'

'Are you all right?' George asked in a low voice.

'Oh, yeah!' Paul laughed breezily at himself. 'Yeah, I'm okay, George.'

Ringo was looking at him curiously when the phone rang suddenly, saving Paul the trouble of dodging questions. He glanced at John and then got up to answer the phone, leaving Paul at the table.

'Hello?' they heard him answer.

'Yes, this is RINGO.'

'The concert's not till tonight, Bri... A show? Bloody Day by Day. Okay. Sure, ready in twenty.' He hung up.

'What was Eppy on about?' demanded John.

'We've got some sort of television show asking for us. Today, in the morning.'

There were grumbles and hurried chaos. Paul, rarely one to enjoy losing the room's attention, breathed a sigh of relief, tossed his toast, and went into his room again to put on a coat, shivering. They were downstairs in just over twenty minutes, the promised van waiting to pick them up.

'After you,' muttered Ringo, and Paul stepped into the van, sitting sideways next to George.

'Where we going, Johnny?' he asked.

'Guildhall, Portsmouth,' answered John, glancing at Ringo as he slammed the door shut. The car rumbled beneath them and started rolling.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they’re off! I’d be pleased to get comments if you can spare a few -- hope you enjoyed and certainly hope you are having a better day than Paul’s that day!
> 
> ~ yesterdaisy_______57


	2. Mr Jeremy James

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of swearing from here. Enjoy.

They tumbled out of the van under the imperious gaze of the Portsmouth Guildhall after a short ride from the hotel; John emerged first and heard somebody slip behind him, but he didn’t look back. The building itself was very grand looking, with great stone pillars holding up a heavy top. The entrance was preceded by a flight of good-looking stone steps.

Of course, the _Beatles_ were to go through a different way. When they’d emerged through a series of halls and come into their own dressing room, the cameras were already there waiting, along with a rather strictly put together man who, from Brian’s bit of explanation, was Mr Jeremy James --- or was it James Jeremy? No, it was Jeremy James. John was sure of it.

Mr Jeremy James looked up at their arrival. He smoothed his suit and looked them up and down. ‘Hello, boys. I trust the journey went well?’

‘Marvellous, marvellous,’ crooned John. He tried to catch Paul’s eye, then sobered. ‘Marvellous.’

‘Lovely. Shall we start the interview, then?’

‘Yes, let’s,’ George said.

The cameras started up. Click click click.

‘Are you beginning to find the speed of getting around the country, the tremendous strain, getting you down a bit?’ inquired Mr Jeremy James.

The Beatles all laughed.

‘No, we like it,’ John giggled. ‘It’s great.’

‘You know us,’ added Paul.

‘You don’t find it frightening,’ persisted Mr Jamery Gems, ‘this business of... getting mobbed and having to go through all that rigamarole to get here?’

‘Police get mobbed, we don’t,’ John answered matter-of-factly.

‘It’s always well-organised, you know,’ put in Paul, nodding, ‘very well organised… Tonight it was very good.’

‘And how did you get here tonight?’ asked Mr Therapy Nems.

Paul looked up. ‘A van.’

‘How?’

John watched Paul closely, biting his lip. He recognised Paul’s press mode easily, but he also noticed a bit of sweat on him. What was on?

‘Uh, we were met outside the… city… and brought in by a van, sort of--’ Paul searched for a word -- ‘just _unloaded,_ at the loading bay.’ He gave a smile and looked back down at his feet. No wonder, in that heavy coat… But why hadn’t he just taken it off? Ringo chuckled.

‘Is that the way you’re going to go away again?’ Mr Therapy Maims asked quickly.

‘I don’t know, they just fix it up and send us out,’ Ringo said; simultaneously, George was answering the same question: ‘Well, they’ll arrange that.’

‘They’ll arrange that,’ repeated George after Ringo had trailed off, ‘before the end of the show, you know… er, see which is the best way.’ He nodded. John hummed his agreement.

Mr Probably Trains steamed on. ‘You’re getting so much publicity these days, even the-- the _egghead_ papers are writing about you; are you beginning to get a bit worried about possibly going over the top fairly soon?’

There was a half-second’s silence. ‘No,’ said John. Paul cocked his head thoughtfully. ‘You know,’ added John, smiling, ‘when you’ve gotta go, you gotta go!’ He made a quick face.

Paul bit his lip and smiled at the ground, stepping around a bit.

‘What are you going to do, when your time comes?’ asked Mr Probably Trains.

‘Sail on a yacht,’ said George, staring at his shoes. Ringo un-cocked his head and chuckled. John laughed and looked at George.

‘We don’t know,’ said the fully-scarfed Ringo after the muttering and chuckling had died down. ‘We’ve been -- we haven’t got any definite ideas what we’re gonna do.’

‘Hint of college, eh?’ said John, pulling at his scarf.

Ringo looked down at it. ‘Yeah, it’s me school scarf,’ he quipped. ‘Borstel High.’

They chuckled. Paul glanced up for a second, then dropped his eyes again and cleared his throat. He cast his eyes away.

‘Touch of throat?’ Mr Rarity Games asked, of Ringo.

‘Yeah.’ He cleared it and raised his voice, laughing. ‘There’s nothing wrong!

John and George laughed.

‘I _always_ talk like this,’ Ringo finished, smiling.

John suddenly heard Paul let out an odd little groan and glanced at him; he was looking down at his knees, but he seemed to feel John’s watch and so looked back up at Mr Merrily Blames, a definitely ill-seeming look on his face. John longed to stop the interview, but he knew Paul would hate it and so he followed Paul’s lead and put his own eyes on Mr Merry-wee-Dames.

‘You’re not thinking about -- giving up the big beat stuff and going in for some harmony singing?’ he began. ‘Cos lots of people say you’re very good.’

John and George simultaneously tried to answer.

‘Well, we do happen to do that!’ George was saying, but he finished with that.

John had said: ‘You should note there is harmony in the big beat.’ He continued alone: ‘It just happens to have a beat as well. All our records have some kind of harmony on them.’ He said this last bit a little defensively.

Mr Carry-me-Dames who had not completed his research continued: ‘I noticed in the, uh, Royal Show, that you did one ballad number… Is this something you’re going to do more of?’

John glanced at Paul, who had sung said ballad, but he didn’t look in the mood to answer, so, once again, Ringo looked on as John and George did so.

‘We’ve been doing that one--’ George left it to John.

‘We’ve been singing that one for about five years, and we’ve always done them, just like that, it’s just that we’re known for… faster numbers.’

‘Do you like the ballads?’ inquired Mr Carry-me-Planes.

‘If they’re good,’ John answered honestly. ‘You know-- there’s good ballads and good beats--’ he made a face towards the camera -- ‘mmm.’

He looked around to see Paul completely out of it, eyes unfocused from nearly directly behind Ringo. His face was looking quite pale.

‘You alright?’ John blurted, not paying any mind to Mr Parody Fames and his current question. Paul glanced around, confused, for half a second before looking at John and smiling.

‘Oh, yeah!’ he answered unconvincingly, attempting a laugh.

‘Paul?’ murmured Ringo, while John pretended to laugh in return.

‘Fine,’ Paul returned quietly; Mr Heresy Tames was already continuing.

‘How did you -- er -- how did you enjoy the Royal Show?’ he asked.

John faked a smile for the camera and left George to answer the question. He turned to Paul, who had turned his face to hide behind Ringo again. John tapped his elbow and mouthed his question again concernedly.

Paul turned to him with a silent ‘ _no_ ’. John’s breath hitched for a moment, but he made sure to play along and grin contentedly as Paul stepped back into plain view of the camera, making it look as though he’d been trying to make John smile. They both turned to face the front again. John squeezed Paul’s wrist subtly in comfort.

‘... the audience,’ George was explaining to Mr Parakeet Brains, ‘was much better than we expected.’

‘Much taller,’ John added, looking at him casually.

‘Yeah,’ George agreed.

‘Did they rattle around?’ inquired Parakeet Sames.

John raised his eyebrows. ‘I think they did, a few of them.’

He heard a quiet, sharp intake of breath from Paul behind him.

‘Sorry, but we’ve got to stop now,’ declared John immediately. ‘Thanks -- it was great, Mister-- er-- James.’

Mr Parakeet Lames was still looking at him; George came to the rescue and thanked him profusely, leading him out of the room.

One of the men on the crew came over to John and started to ask him something -- John began talking nonsense and following George out of the room, the man following. Ringo came afterwards, then Paul emerged pale-faced and sweaty, helping a camera-man fit his equipment out the door. John went in the other door just after Ringo to find George already there.

‘I don’t think Paul’s well,’ he said shortly; then, feeling nervous and restless, he simply left the room.

Paul had made his way halfway down the hall with the camera-man and, having finished get the camera through another door, was now shaking hands with him.

‘Thanks, yeah,’ Paul was saying. ‘Fantastic… oh-- John!’ The camera-man had disappeared; Paul had noticed him.

They met halfway down the hallway and stood close as if they were still in the close quarters of the Mendips ‘vestibule’, or in Hamburg. A man came by, staring, and they quickly cleared to the side, against the wall. Paul, who still looked unusually pale, leaned against it.

‘Paul, what’s wrong?’ John murmured, looking straight at him. He looked uncomfortable. ‘What is it?’

Paul looked away evasively. ‘It’s fine, John,’ he said evenly after a pause. ‘I’m sorry. We should get ready for the show.’

‘The show’s not for another four hours, ya fucker,’ snapped John back at him. ‘You’re pale, you can’t stand _apparently,_ ’-- Paul wrenched himself away from the wall -- ‘and _I_ was just made by Paul fuckin’ McCharmly himself to stop an interview! Something to declare then, is there?’

Paul looked at him with tired eyes. ‘I can handle it, love,’ he insisted. ‘Just a bit of headache coming up again and I’m tired, that’s all.’

‘Sure, love?’ John asked cautiously. ‘You’ll let me know if, you know…’ He trailed off, but there was no response from Paul. ‘… Anything else goes bad, yeah?’

‘Not if you’re going to stop a whole fuckin’ _show_ next time…’ muttered Paul sharply. He was leaning against the wall again.

‘Paul!’

‘Oh -- shocked, Johnny? I’m not crying to Brian over a bit of a headache.’

‘Paul!’ repeated John loudly, but Paul, already walking away, paid him no notice. Fucking stubborn prick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the interview from that day:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LYzSbRYFaPQ  
> And a partial transcript:  
> http://www.beatlesinterviews.org/db1963.1111.beatles.html
> 
> I actually did some research on where they were staying; it was the Royal Beach Hotel in Portsmouth and this is their fascinating history page:  
> https://www.royalbeachhotel.co.uk/history.php  
> In the 50’s and 60’s section it mentions this event. However, I’m not sure to trust their assertion that ‘the band laid low at the hotel for two days’, simply because the trustworthy Mark Lewisohn describes the chaos in which they were smuggled around the ABC cinema the following day, 13 November. They performed on the 10th, intended to on the 12th, then did on the 13th, 14th, 15th, 16th and 17th… and then attended a ceremony at EMI House in London on 18 Nov before jumping into more shows, so I wouldn’t say they exactly laid low.  
> I also found that another interview of theirs aired around the same time as the Day By Day one, which they had taped earlier, at the hotel. Incidentally, this fellow’s name was John Johnston.  
> Wonder what John Lennon would’ve done with that.
> 
> ~ yesterdaisy_______57


	3. I'm Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait on this one -- I suddenly got held up with a lot of work, and this is also a bit longer and harder to write than the others thus far, what with writing as George and the type of events that happen.  
> Speaking of which, it does get a bit less... palatable from here.  
> Enjoy!

Without all the cameras and people in it, the dressing room at the Portsmouth Guildhall was rather typical. Mirrors lined one wall above the counters for resting combs or powder and knick-knacks; two armchairs and a couch were situated around a low table; there was also a telephone on a small table near another wall (where stood John and George’s guitars), but they had discovered it was broken. An amp occupied each armchair as a result of the Beatles’ presence; a few fan magazines had been spread on the table as well.

There were eighty minutes till showtime, and they were nearly dressed. George was slapping dust off his jacket; Ringo was next to him, combing his hair in front of the mirror; behind George, Paul had just tossed his heavy coat across the room and picked his jacket off the back of an armchair. John was sitting on the side of the chair putting on his boots.

George watched him finish stuffing them on and get up to fetch his guitar; with a similar idea, Paul finished pulling on his jacket and turned towards his bass. It was leaning up against the side of John’s chair. At that moment something very odd happened.

He watched it happen in the mirror. Paul reached for the long neck of his bass  -- and then suddenly he began to collapse, leaning on the instrument immediately with his left hand to break his imminent fall. The bass slipped out from beneath him, and Paul was left grasping inexpertly for the arm of the chair in order to remain relatively upright. John and Ringo whipped round at the sound of the bass falling -- and another crash rang through the room as John dropped his guitar too.

They all turned to stare at Paul.

He had, by some miracle, remained vertical; but it looked like that wouldn’t last long. He was breathing heavily, his eyes closed, his face completely white; for the moment, he was braced tightly against the side of the chair, but tenseness was slipping from his body as he fought to maintain some level of consciousness. John and Ringo were there in an instant, steadying him under the arms -- he slumped towards them, nearly out.

There was a loud _whack_ as John slapped Paul hard across the face. George winced, but Paul barely responded; John looked terrified.

He did it a second time and this time Paul was snapped into full consciousness with a gasp. He murmured something inaudible, breathing hard.

‘What’s that?’ asked John.

‘I’m sorry, lads,’ repeated Paul in a whisper, ‘I can’t go on tonight.’

‘You don’t say,’ muttered John nervously. ‘You’re shivering, love.’

Paul managed to lower himself shakily to the ground; he then looked rather embarrassed. Colour was returning to his face now -- primarily a hot red where John had hit him, but this was at least an improvement from before. He was indeed shivering: Ringo pulled off his scarf and put it around him. The room was held in a somewhat shocked silence for a moment. George thought Paul looked awful, and he was about to suggest calling Brian when Paul himself interrupted, carefully keeping an even tone:

‘Erm, sorry, lads -- but I think I’ll be sick in a second,’ he said; he was already pushing himself quickly to his feet and he threw the scarf into Ringo’s lap, staggered a few steps and hurried into the adjacent toilet. They heard him retch several times; George grimaced and told John under his breath that he was going to go and call Brian. Lennon nodded stiffly.

‘Don’t worry, John,’ cautioned George. ‘He’ll be fine.’

John swallowed and nodded again, then looked back towards the toilet, biting his lip. George sighed and left the room.

\------

    He started off in a random direction, not really knowing where to go. He tried to remember if Brian had mentioned staying at the Guildhall while they had their interview or whether he was doing something else first and would have to be called on a telephone -- and where would he go to do that? His heart was still beating fast but took his mind firmly off Paul. Quicker to help him if you didn't dwell on it. But he maintained a sense of urgency, purpose.

    George turned a corner and only had seconds to register the large window in the hallway before the mass of fans registered _him_ ; and he immediately was compelled to turn and race the other direction because they had erupted into ear-splitting shrieks of excitement, some going so far as to throw themselves at the window. He hurried quickly away from the borders of the building, towards the stage area. Half-expecting to bump into his own manager, he poked curiously around backstage -- then was recognised again, this time by a few crew members.

    ‘Are the four of you going to be coming on shortly? It’s getting awfully close to the show and we can’t be sure how you’ll sound if we haven’t tested first.’

    Privately, George thought that they ought to bring in a few hundred of those fans outside if they wanted to hear what it would really be like, but unless Paul McCartney came waltzing in at that moment perfectly well, they were not going to play at all. He waited half a second. No waltzing Paul.

    ‘No,’ he told them carefully, ‘I don’t think so.’ He turned to leave again, ignoring their various protests and questions -- he preferred not to say anything clear until he’d spoken with Brian. The question was how to do such a thing. He wandered through a few hallways.

    ‘George?’

George turned to see Mal Evans coming toward him. ‘Hello, Mal,’ he said, relieved. ‘Can you help? I need to talk with Eppy.’

‘Yeah-- why?’

George quickly explained their situation. Mal looked concerned and nodded when he asked him to go to the dressing room and find out what needed to happen; he also directed George to a telephone where he could reach Brian to tell him the news, and when they parted he felt much more settled.

He turned the corner Mal had indicated and accidentally walked into a very tall man in a very clean suit. The man bristled at first, stepped back, brushed off his suit (‘Sorry, sir,’ muttered George) and then seemed to notice who he had just collided with. He stepped back again and cleared his throat.

‘Now what is this they’re saying about the show?’ he asked imperiously. ‘You _can’t_ just refuse to go on.’

Southerner.

‘We can,’ corrected George. ‘You heard, then-- Paul’s ill. We’re not playing.’

‘Surely you could play as a trio!’ protested the man. ‘Or a stand-in bassist could be called in, providing…’

‘Providing nothing,’ said George firmly. ‘The Beatles is me, John, Ringo and Paul. That’s all there is to it, really.’

The man closed his mouth, clearly dissatisfied, and looked hard at him for a moment, then left without a word. So much for keeping things vague. George continued on his own way and quickly found the telephone Mal had described. He dialled and waited… waited… waited…

At last he heard the welcome voice of Brian Epstein: ‘Hello, this is Brian Epstein. Who's calling?’

‘It’s George Harrison, Bri -- I need to talk to you.’

‘George -- your show is in forty minutes!’ A disapproving ‘What are you _doing_?’ hung clearly in the air.

George paused. ‘We’re not going on,’ he declared at last. ‘It’s Paul -- he’s taken ill.’

Brian sounded genuinely surprised. ‘ _Paul_ is ill? Has he got the same thing as Ringo?’ he asked.

‘No. It’s worse,’ replied George grimly. ‘We think he’s got some kind of stomach bug but we can’t be sure. Nearly fainted in the dressing room a few minutes ago.’

‘Well, you certainly can’t go on like that,’ Brian agreed. ‘We’ll have to cancel, rearrange… I hope they’ll not refuse if--’

‘Bri,’ interrupted George, ‘we haven’t even seen all the girls here yet. When they get wind Paul is ill-- 'Spect the police are going to be nervous for their lives. They won’t turn us around.’

There was a short pause, then Brian answered. ‘Yes, of course. I agree. Well, I suppose I ought to go quickly and reschedule the show -- I’ll have to find an open spot our own book!’

‘Thanks, Brian. See you soon.’

‘Good luck with Paul.’

\-------

John wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers, standing self-conciously in the middle of the dressing room. He glanced over to Ringo, who was reading a pink-edged Beatles fan magazine, on the front of which a picture of the four of them took up most of the space. They both winced as Paul made a particularly marvellous sound from the toilet and Ringo looked up at John almost expectantly.

‘I’ll go check on him,’ John said abruptly. ‘See how he’s holding up.’

‘Thought you might,’ mused Ringo calmly. He went back to his magazine.

John didn’t move. He did need Paul tremendously; however, he wasn’t sure if he _wanted_ to see how he was holding up. Selfishly, he wanted only the playful, strong, sunny Paul. He reprimanded himself.

Paul needed him too.

John took a deep breath and reached the unlocked door in a few steps, pushed it open and took in the scene before him: Paul had taken off his jacket and was on one knee in his white shirt, leaning heavily over the small toilet in the corner.

Driven purely by instinct, John headed straight for him, but then he abruptly began gagging again and John was stopped in his tracks. He watched as each new shudder ran through Paul’s body from head to toe; in the seconds between retches he could hear Paul gasping for breath, throat choked up until it was forced open again. John grimaced sympathetically and approached his friend slowly, putting a hand comfortingly on his back. It was dismayingly hot to the touch, and damp from sweat, but Paul did not jump, which meant that he had heard John come in and was fine with it.

John knelt down next to him, hand still a support on his back, and ran his fingers through Paul’s hair, gently pulled back the strands that had stuck to his sweaty face.

‘There you go, Paulie,’ he encouraged. ‘It’s all right.’ Paul closed his eyes.

It was only dry heaves: John recalled that all he’d had since an early lunch the previous day was some tea and the bit of toast he’d been compelled -- by John -- to eat. He really should have paid better attention to Paul’s strange behaviour that morning. Maybe then…

‘Don’t be worried, John.’

‘I’m not,’ parried John immediately.

Paul smiled. ‘Well, you’ve been awfully quiet since you got in here,’ he pointed out.

John did not answer-- they both knew Paul was right.

‘I only came in here to see how you were doing,’ he explained, and felt Paul’s forehead after letting him retch another moment.

‘Well, now you’re seeing me. Inside and out.’

‘You’re hot, Macca.’

‘I know, I’m beautiful.’

It was very relieving for John to let out a laugh. ‘You don’t _sound_ too beautiful,’ he pointed out, but when Paul didn’t respond it was more of a reminder of the situation than a triumph in bantering. He felt his heart fall. He could just imagine the wink Paul would have given him.

Paul wasn’t up for that right now. He looked exhausted; his voice was hoarse and quiet. John ran his fingers gently through Paul’s hair again.

‘Is that Mal?’ said John suddenly, listening closely to the voices that had started up outside. ‘Hang on a minute, Paul -- I’ll be right back.’

He left his friend in the corner and burst out of the door into the dressing room, nerves on end. Ringo had stood up and was talking with Mal Evans; they both looked around when he came in. Mal turned to him.

‘How’s--’

‘Not great,’ interrupted John -- ‘he’s still at it, and I think he’s got a fever too, he’ll be out of it and tired as soon as he’s done.’

‘A thermometer, then?’

‘Thanks,’ confirmed John. There was a tense pause; the others looked nearly as worried as he felt. ‘How soon are Neil and Bri coming?’

‘Pretty soon. George has taken some things out to a place where we can wait. We’re going to start clearing out so things move faster.’

‘Will you take Paul’s and my stuff out too, then?’ asked John. ‘I’ll go now and help him-- just call when we’re off.’

Mal and Ringo agreed to do so.

When John got back to the toilet, Paul had finished being sick. He took a few steady breaths and then at last came away from the toilet and slumped back against the wall tiredly, closing his eyes. He bit his lip disappointedly.

‘Oh, God,’ he murmured, ‘I’ve stopped a show. How could I stop a show?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ouch. Poor Paul.
> 
> I always doubt myself when I’m writing anything dramatic or unfortunate, so this a bit difficult. Personally I don't like this one as much as I do the others. I hope you enjoyed it, anyway -- fingers crossed!  
> For next time: look forward to a bit of a tender scene coming up!
> 
> And now -- there are several pictures for this one!  
> Here is the magazine Ringo was reading. It is from November 1963 and there is some pretty serious eye Lennon-McCartney eye contact:  
> http://www.serioustoyz.com/ItemImages/000000/DSbtlsbook04_med.jpeg
> 
> Newspaper clipping describing the main incident in this chapter (note: spoiler for later):  
> http://www.beatlesbible.com/wp/media/631112_newspaper_report-183x580.jpg  
> Paul then said that it was all an exaggeration and he didn’t exactly collapse, so I made sure to only make him NEARLY collapse! ;) He wouldn’t have stopped a show for anything trivial, though, and he does seem ready to hide illness in the interview. I’m guessing it was worse than he made it out to be, but less dramatic than the newspapers did.
> 
> And here is one ticket for the original show, which was postponed to December (epilogue perhaps?):  
> https://www.portsmouth.co.uk/webimage/1.6889951.1438868753!/image/1693082173.jpg
> 
> As always, I love comments.  
> Till next time,
> 
> yesterdaisy_______57


	4. Distance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so glad to be over with this chapter. Sorry it took so long -- and it isn’t even very long itself!

It took a moment to get Paul up off the floor: supporting him with steady arms, John could feel his exhaustion intimately, between the way he was leaning into John’s hands to give them his weight and the lingering shakiness he must have hated.

Boundaries, helplessness: they were hell to Paul; John was well aware this. He understood how Paul was constantly restless, never able to sit still; how he prided himself on the command he could so often keep over his feelings and situations; that though he liked the reputation of being polite he could never be subservient; and how he always found great thrill in pushing to new places, with his voice or his body or his mind.

John had, when he’d first turned around to see him barely conscious, struggling to keep upright, known from the look on his face how Paul had resented the lapse in control of his own body. But then he’d slipped still farther from sentience, and John had been so intent on giving it back to him even as he and Ringo felt Paul slump into their hands… But he had hit him so hard… _so hard!_ But he _hadn’t responded._ It terrified John more than anything to feel the weight in his arms and to see that face so pale, absent of animation, so far away…

John tried to beat down his nerves even now as Paul wordlessly leant himself against the wall. His lack of verbal communication was disconcertingly distant, even if John knew why it came. He calmed himself by touch, brushing filth from Paul’s clothes tenderly and savouring the subtly discernible physical responses he was getting in return.

‘Hang on,’ he murmured; then he was back with damp handkerchiefs.

It was a mark of their mutual trust -- and his current condition -- that Paul did not shrink back as John swabbed his lips clean. It felt so important, so treasured, for them to touch.

Paul’s eyes, John noticed, were closed. He allowed himself not to waver at the added degree of separation, instead focusing on the familiar shape of the dark eyelashes leaving shadows on his face.

 _Paul’s still there,_ he reminded himself urgently, _it’s him and he does like you, really._

‘Thanks, Johnny,’ Paul said softly, and though he could not manage more it was enough for John just to hear that. It was as if he had read his mind. Relief swept over him; he could have hugged Paul till he threw up again; instead he stroked a grateful, affectionate hand through his hair.

‘Going out!’ called Ringo’s voice from the dressing room. Paul gave a start and stood up quickly; he swayed for a moment, but John held him steady and they both paused for a moment. Then they were out the door to fetch their coats.

Once they were out of the dressing room some cleaning staff went in. It seemed distinctly less organised a situation than their arrival had been, for there was nowhere John and Paul were expected to be; they stood together in the hallway, watching the people go by. Luckily no fans from outside had managed to get inside, though they were nevertheless recognised by most passersby.

Some people walked straight past without a glance, while others couldn’t resist; their eyes lingered as their bodies moved, like the eyes of a painting that seem to follow you around. While a number of these observers held concern in their faces as they looked particularly Paul up and down, a good many did not attempt to hide their bitterness or disappointment, throwing scowls unabashedly towards both of them or sometimes just Paul.

John tried not to let these people sour looks at the pair of them bother him; he merely bit his lip and pretended to ignore them. He didn’t owe any apology; this was neither his nor Paul’s fault. If _they_ had a choice, it would not be happening. He turned away from the rush of people and looked at his companion himself.

Paul was standing with hands behind his back, shining hazel eyes open -- if naturally a bit sleepy -- and watching as the people rushed by. His face was carefully blank, but only just. There was a hard look in those eyes which betrayed his own guilt and anger at himself.

He did not react obviously to the looks he was getting, but John could sense him feeling progressively more embarrassed; he shifted slightly and blocked his companion from view as well as he could. Much as he might needle Paul himself, he was never going to allow anybody else to crap on him -- Paul did the same for John when necessary; and in the meantime they bickered and brawled and hugged each other like mad until they got so close they could feel energy course through the physical space between them like in some marvellous game of tug-of-war. To let go, to stop holding each other up, was unimaginable.

Paul was non-negotiable for John.

Relaxing in John’s shadow, his companion bent over a bit and leant against the wall, hiding his face. John gave him a last glance and turned back to the hallway, slamming his hands into his pockets worriedly as he did; the halls still teemed with people who continued to send judgemental faces his and Paul’s way. Hardly anybody seemed to be a fan or part of the press; however, after a few minutes there was a flash and John registered that somebody had taken a picture of him (and presumably, Paul in the background).

He sucked in air testily; perhaps they noticed his and Paul’s unenthusiasm, for no more flashes appeared.

However, as they were finally being called out to go to the van, the first disappointed, pink-faced fan managed to make her way into the building.

‘John, I love you!’ she told him desperately. ‘Won’t you sign this for me?’ And she held up what was clearly a notebook from school.

John hesitated and looked concernedly towards Paul; the girl did the same and then looked back to John with a disappointed ‘Oh…’, but suddenly Paul spoke up tiredly.

‘It’s all right, Johnny,’ he said, and turned to the girl as she provided John with a pen. ‘What’s your name, darling?’

‘Elizabeth,’ replied the girl breathlessly, but before she could say more John handed her the autograph back and pulled Paul along hurriedly.

‘Nice to meet you,’ he called back, and saw her face go a little pinker before she disappeared in the crowd which they were getting through.

Mal was waiting at the side of the exit; he and John flanked Paul’s sides as they made their quick way to the van, giving the police-restrained screaming mob a wide berth. Their hearts were pounding by the time they’d slammed the door closed and collapsed into the seats. Neil started driving immediately.

Brian Epstein was sitting next to him in the front seat, immaculate as always but looking slightly distressed. He didn’t say anything at first but rather seemed to silently assess the situation; Paul looked white and exhausted, but his face was resolved, relaxed, his chin in his hand. Heartened by his calm nature, Brian cleared his throat and spoke:

‘How are you doing, Paul?’ he asked.

‘Fine,’ said Paul.

Brian momentarily closed his eyes and waited, patient. He did not have to wait long, as expected.

‘Dead tired, though,' Paul conceded. 'Couldn’t sleep with an headache.’

‘Was that the first you were aware of any illness?’

‘Last night?’

‘Yes, last night.’

‘I think so, yeah.’

‘Has it gone? The headache?’

Paul winced. ‘Mm, not really,’ he said. ‘But the only difference is that… now I’ve got other things to sort of worry about, haven’t I?’

He shifted a bit in his seat and John could sense an amount of careful control hiding the discomfort.

Brian looked at his bass player sharply.

‘John, did you say you thought he had a fever?’ asked Neil. He was leaning forward in his seat and when John confirmed this, he brandished a thermometer and gave it to Paul.

‘Pop that in… see what comes out,’ he muttered.

Paul took it slowly, examined it and obeyed.

‘A fever could certainly account for the chills,’ murmured Brian, watching him closely. ‘And no chance of eating, I expect?’

Paul shook his head dully. He seemed to be feeling the pressure of everyone watching him rather hard; John looked out the window as casually as possible.

It would have been nicer to be at home while this happened, he thought wistfully as he watched the unknown buildings and people whiz by. Rather than on tour with show after show approaching, unfamiliar faces and cities screaming at them.

John looked around when he heard George muttering something.

‘All right,’ he said, holding up the thermometer. ‘Here we go… Is that fucking forty degrees, Paul?’

John’s heart dropped.

He looked at Paul, trying to catch his eye, but his friend was still gazing at the floor. At George’s incredulous report Paul raised his eyebrows and nodded absently, then shifted under everyone’s watches and looked around uncomfortably, avoiding their eyes as if looking for a way out. John lowered his gaze again and turned to Brian, who said something about calling a doctor.

It was a fairly quiet ride for the rest of the trip, and John finally exchanged glances with Paul and settled down a bit, collecting himself for the rough evening ahead.

The bright side, as his partner might have already noticed, was that they had just the people to get through it together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry it took so long, it still feels awkward somehow… But another chapter will probably up soon as I have already got a lot of it written!  
> 40 degrees Celsius, for American reference, is about 104 degrees Fahrenheit. It’s pretty bad and I couldn’t say whether he really had that temperature, but it does make you feel like crap and it’s recommended to call a doctor, which both happened.  
> Hope to receive more comments -- thanks to everyone who has left them, they’re so lovely to see!  
> Till next time--  
> ~yesterdaisy_______57


	5. Rough Landing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe I should just set ‘sorry this is so late’ as the default heading for all my works.  
> Happy New Year! (Hogmanay, to anyone who celebrates it!)

Paul had been resolutely motionless for the duration of their trip back to the Portsmouth hotel when it finally came into view. There was a small group of fans surrounding the entrance -- Brian sighed: he had hoped to keep its identity a complete secret. A moment after the car rolled into the sightline of those around the hotel, a general scream spread and the nodding-off police leapt to position and attempted to restrain the hopeful sprinters on their ways to visit the Beatles.

Suddenly there was a flash of blue as one shrieking teenager who had evidently already been close to the car ran breathlessly in its path; Paul’s hands clenched suddenly on John’s leg. John looked at Paul; Neil swore loudly and jerked the steering wheel aside. The girl popped up in an instant, beside the car, and it jolted again to get back on track.

‘Christ,’ breathed Neil, shakily pressing on the gas.

Paul, who had been shunted into John’s shoulder by the abrupt shift, righted himself with wide eyes and exhaled a bit shakily himself. John’s own eyes snapped to him again. Something in his breath betrayed the discomfort he had been covering up so well. John had nearly started to forget something of it. He kicked himself internally. That couldn’t slip, whatever Paul’s pretense.

‘All right, lads… be ready,’ called Neil from ahead, and as soon as the car had slowed enough John was clambering out, pulling Paul with him.

His feet seemed to trip over the ground as he charged for the door, but he disregarded them and tried to keep running. The noise was overwhelming. From every direction in the blurry mob came wails of ‘JOHHN’ or ‘PAAUUL’ or even ‘PLEEASE!!’ John skidded to a stop as he felt Paul’s hand suddenly stop and resist his pulls forward.

Heart beating fast, he turned round to look at what had happened. Paul fucking _PR McCartney_ , still white in the face and shaky with chills, was earnestly engaging with a group of enthralled fans, hand extending left and right for handshakes. John stared.

He tugged at his hand and the fans looked at him and began sobbing his name too, moving towards them; Paul gave him a glance and nodded, looked back at the fans and said ‘Got to go, love, sorry’, then came along once again.

John couldn’t risk telling Paul off in the midst of the crowd, so he simply gritted his teeth and tried to look pleasant, pulling him stubbornly along every time he paused. He _knew_ Paul was losing his control and his composure fast, regardless of what he managed to put on. He knew it was getting worse and they needed to get inside. But Paul was such a bloody press man sometimes.

It was lucky that John had insisted on such limitation of Paul’s charming greetings, because the minute the door closed behind him, he broke away from him and fell back against the wall, closing his eyes and breathing as deeply as he could. He looked as though he’d just run all the way from the Guildhall himself. It was a remarkable difference from his behaviour just a minute before. Everything of his manner suggested the exhaustion and pain John had heard in the car.

He didn’t have long to gather himself, however, because footsteps were approaching the hall and soon hotel staff were streaming in, all curious faces and quickfire questions. Paul wrenched himself away from the wall and stuffed his hands in his pockets to hide the way he’d nearly doubled over, then strolled into the throng of politely agitated staff and started dealing with them calmly, explaining away and calling most by the names he had -- inexplicably -- already learnt. John gave another cautionary look and turned to the staff himself.

‘Yes, yes, we’ve cancelled the concert,’ he said to a confused looking maid. ‘Bit of a mishap so we’re staying here now. I think we’ll be back next month.’

‘Is everything all right?’

‘Shall we expect you longer?’

‘Are the others coming?’

‘Will you need a--’

‘Yes,’ butted in John loudly, ‘I think they’re coming right now.’ There was a great bustling towards the door again.

It opened and for a few seconds they could hear the screaming throng again as Ringo, Brian and George struggled in, overloaded with instruments. Paul and John hurried over to take some things off their hands: John took two guitars and an amp from George and Paul his bass from Ringo and two drums from a protesting Brian.

‘Paul, are you--’

‘I can carry this, Brian, I’m sure of it,’ argued Paul, backing away from him with the instruments in his arms. ‘It isn’t heavy.’

Brian opened his mouth, but he didn’t say anything. Paul had just reached the first step and was climbing the stairs.

‘Where’re Neil and Mal?’ asked John as he and Ringo followed behind him.

‘Mal’s still clearing up things at the Hall and Neil’s getting the last of our equipment in the car. Is Paul all right?’

‘I don’t know. You know him,’ said John. He paused. ‘I hope so.’

When they got to their room, George got the key out of Paul’s pocket and managed to open the door so they could all spill in. The few staff who had insisted on accompanying them dispersed now.

Brian dropped off his own load of stuff, urged them to be careful, and left the suite. John closed the door and set the guitars against a chair carefully. It felt odd to be back in the room so soon, a bit like they had all been sent home from school ill.

George fell onto the couch at once and was quickly behind a newspaper, comparing nose lengths with the man in the picture. Ringo went towards the kitchen and busied himself with teacups; Paul simply kept walking around the room. John sat down in a chair next to him and looked tiredly up at the ceiling, trying to stay calm himself. He couldn’t quite rid himself of the image of Paul falling against the wall. The situation was not predictable. They’d just have to see what happened as it came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one was short and the wait really wasn't. I’ve been having some trouble with motivation for this story because I’ve never had a clear message for it. But I keep reading the lovely comments people have left and continuing because… you like it? I made a couple changes so that it will stay more interesting to me and definitely plan to continue -- look forward to some John and George soon! I have got no clue what will happen there yet and I really tend to do better with scenes including Paul but I’m going to go for it -- hope you enjoy! First there’ll be some time with Ringo and Paul.  
> Till then,  
> Thanks for the eyes--
> 
> yesterdaisy_______57


	6. The Second Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first part of this chapter actually terrified me to write because I started thinking like John and imagining this happening and I was shaking for the next hour! I don’t think I translated that very adequately on to the paper, though, so it could be dull to read anyway. Hope not.  
> On the upside, this chapter is relatively long… so please enjoy!

Paul was surprisingly upbeat and energetic once they’d all settled into the suite -- considering they’d just stopped a concert on account of his ill health, he was hardly different from usual and was bouncing around, helping Ringo to make tea and fiddling about with John’s guitar while John and George engaged in a game of cards. He could be infuriatingly unforthcoming when he wanted to be, however; they couldn’t be sure of exactly how he was doing, but worrying, they knew, would make him close up even farther. Instead they sat around tensely, trying to act as if everything were normal.

John won the first game.

‘Ey, Paul!’ called George.

Paul stopped walking around the room. ‘What’s that?’

George held up the pack of cards. Paul grinned and started walking again. ‘Nah. Maybe later.’

George shrugged and dealt cards out again for him and John. John picked up his hand and cursed loudly, then pointedly avoided George’s eyes. George was used to this; he had already been acquainted with John’s poker face for a few years now and had come to declare that it was surprisingly effective. He chuckled when John squinted back at his cards, fished around in his pocket, took out his glasses, and peered down at the set with a knowing sort of ‘ah!’.

It was perhaps the third or fourth time that Paul walked past John that he paused suddenly. As if he had known before that his partner was going to stop, John too froze with his cards halfway in the air. He glanced up as something shifted in Paul’s face, catching his breath.

‘Your turn,’ blurted George’s low voice from in front of him.

John turned to look at him. ‘Oh, right,’ he muttered distractedly, slamming a card down. ‘There.’

Ringo put down the tea spoons he had been drumming on the counter and they heard him pouring hot water. John still didn’t exhale.

He was up the moment he sensed motion from Paul, holding him as if in a hug but feeling that terrible sensation again, the transfer of weight as Paul slumped into him. John’s body matched Paul’s as it pressed against him, supported it; he was ready this time, if nervous. His heart beat fast into Paul’s torso -- Paul’s head had fallen across his shoulder and his legs knocked into John’s like a boat might bump a dock. This time he’d gone out completely.

Still supporting Paul, John moved his chin over the other’s shoulder and looked around to the others: George was still on the ground and looked very shaken; his dark eyes surveyed Paul’s slack body, his face hard to read. Ringo, on the other hand, did not appear surprised in the slightest.

‘Rings?’ John asked shakily.

‘It’s all right, John,’ said Ringo after he came over. ‘It’s all right. Here, I’ll take him… okay, Paul, lad.’ He eased Paul into his arms, taking him gently against the chest and kneeling slowly to the ground, his body held close.

John turned away uncomfortably: he hated seeing the way Paul’s body had fallen against Ringo, like a wet cloth that wouldn’t stand up. George, still staring at him, had gone rather pale; John joined him and knelt down, averting his own eyes.

However, it was not long before Paul was stirring: he gave a jerk and started to sit up quickly, but Ringo put a hand on his chest and guided him down again. He opened his eyes a bit and they glided over to John and George, taking in their nervous expressions with a bit of panic. Looking upset, he turned his head away and they heard him slur something. Ringo broke his gaze with Paul and looked up at the pair of them.

‘Come on, Georgie,’ said John quietly; he and George stood up and, taking a last look at Paul and Ringo as they started to disappear into the bedroom, they headed out into the hall.

\-----

Ringo closed the door after John and George had gone off and turned back to his bed, where Paul was. His fingers interlocked behind the neck, head down between his knees. Though the bed whined, he didn’t stir when Ringo sat down next to him.

‘Paul?’ asked Ringo cautiously after a moment. ‘Come on, lad… Still here? It’s okay.’

‘I’m here,’ came a quiet, slightly muffled voice. ‘God, I’m sorry, I just… yeah, don’t know what happened.’

Ringo said nothing, letting Paul recover a moment.

‘God, I saw Hazzy’s face… and John,’ said Paul after a long pause. ‘Looked like I’d died or something… wanked to Churchill.’ He moved to sit up normally and put his head in his hands with a grimace.

‘A headache, still?’ asked Ringo quietly.

Paul nodded. His face was still pale.

‘D’you mind if I feel your temperature?’

Paul looked at him. ‘I’m fine, Ring,’ he said quickly, but he didn’t object.

Ringo reached out a hand. His companion’s skin was very hot, as if he’d been close to a fire for some time. Ringo nodded and removed his hand; Paul opened his mouth, then hesitated.

‘Not far from what I expected,’ said Ringo nonchalantly. He hesitated. ‘Do you think you could sleep with that headache?’

Paul shrugged, biting his lip. Something seemed to be making him progressively more distraught. The expression on his face recalled that of a person who might have lost something and could not believe that it was not there where he was looking.

Ringo watched him sympathetically. ‘How about a cup of tea?’ he asked, and was encouraged when Paul accepted. He went into the kitchen, noting that John and George’s teacups had disappeared, and returned quickly.

‘Cheers,’ said Paul, taking one of the cups carefully.

Ringo drank his own rather quickly, as it was beginning to get cold, but Paul lingered, sitting with his elbows on his knees and his head down. He had stayed this way so long, in fact, that Ringo started to wonder if he had fallen asleep sitting up. He was about to get up and perhaps help him into bed when suddenly he was proven wrong -- or perhaps Paul had just woken up very quickly, because he practically fell out of the bed and bolted out the door.

\------

Paul was getting awfully tired of staring into toilets.

He was beginning to think that perhaps this habitual position, combined with the visual effect of his own spew and the ever-more familiar shape of the inside of the bowl, might be encouraging his stomach to keep convulsing single-handedly. He closed his eyes. This only made him more aware of his other senses: the heat in his face, the awful stink, the way his hands couldn’t stop shaking. He opened them again and stared bitterly downwards.

He’d made a good, solid mess of things. This was true even outside the toilet. The Beatles would have been performing now; Bri was probably pissing himself trying to find another booking to fit in their schedule at the Guildhall Portsmouth; they couldn’t possibly afford to miss tomorrow’s fucking show. He needed to be getting better quickly, not resigned to half an hour’s retching on account of a bit of tea, not passing out suddenly and scaring off half the group.

When his body had calmed down again it felt wrung out and somehow even more exhausted than before. Paul let his head fall into his shaky palm and felt it all surrounding him. There was sweat dampening his hair; his head was pounding hotly in his hand; after the excitement of output everything seemed very quiet and smelly. He closed his eyes again as the world swam. However tired he felt, however much he wished he could slip into sleep, away from today, he couldn’t relax and he couldn’t ignore the ache of his head or his stomach or the rest of his body. One moment he’d be tense from cold and the next he’d be restless, trying to throw off the intense heat that made him wish he could shed his skin.

There was a clicking of boots outside the door -- Ringo probably felt that he was done needing privacy -- but Paul did not bother to lift his head. He could still feel his gut pushing threateningly towards his throat, wavering his breaths.

Ringo entered.

Paul opened his eyes, gazing downwards at first, then raised them tiredly, beating down the sick feeling. Ringo watched him and knelt down, a quiet concern in his face. ‘Not quite done?’ he asked tentatively.

Paul shook his head and closed his eyes again. He didn’t want it to start.

‘Easy, Paul,’ came Ringo’s voice. Closer. He was right there. ‘No good refusing when it won’t last forever.’

Paul gazed at him apprehensively, but the look in Ringo’s eyes was steady, urging Paul to trust him. Paul braced himself and nodded slightly.

\-----

Ringo looked out the window as Paul was finishing up, a hand on his back. The sky was starting to darken already -- it was not late, but rather a beginning of the end of a short winter’s day. In an hour’s time they’d probably all be shivering again from the cold air.

Paul was already shivering; Ringo could feel it. He’d stopped actually expelling anything and was being subject to the worse bit of being sick when one simply retches unproductively. This was not particularly pleasant on any of the senses.

But finally, after some last, half-gasping shudders, he pulled away and slumped back into Ringo’s arms with a bit of murmured encouragement. Ringo put a steadying hand on his shoulder.

‘There you go, love,’ said Ringo softly, reaching up to pull the chain. He closed the lid on the flush and adjusted his leg. ‘Better afterwards, it always is.’

He held Paul for what felt like a long time, even after he stopped shaking. From their position he could feel Paul’s hair with his nose and lips, which was soft and smelled like he always did, blocking out any acidic odor remaining in the room. It was a very simple, but a very important closeness. Ringo did not need to ask anything; he just was there for him because he needed it, and in return Paul didn’t try to hide behind any pretense.

At last he opened his eyes again, feeling a bit stiff. Paul was asleep. Ringo hesitated, then carefully began to adjust him, moving his head onto arm and reaching the other under his knees. He held his breath and slid up the wall to a standing position, holding Paul in his arms.

He checked -- Paul hadn’t woken up, unless he was faking. He checked again; he didn’t think so.

Then, stepping carefully, he pushed the door open with his foot, wound back through to their room, turned the knob with some difficulty, set Paul down in a bed (Ringo’s -- his own was farther away) and drew the blankets over him. He left the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was inspired for the last bit by this picture from 1969 -- I originally just saw the left half (you can see a little divide in the image) and it was a bit blurrier, but I thought it just said a lot about their relationship:  
> https://www.beatlesbible.com/gallery/1969-photos/690409_32/  
> I’ve also got another Ringo and Paul story coming up soon, if I can only get Paul’s thoughts together for the middle bit! It’s based on one of each of their solo songs.  
> However, with all this in 12 Nov about the other three and how they uniquely support the group, I’m starting to think I’ve got to figure out Paul… maybe the LSD incident with John could become a story.  
> Not for a while, though! The next chapter of this probably won’t be up for a while (sorry!) because I haven’t really even put any planning into it yet -- although the one afterwards is already written. :S  
> Too much unconscious/sleeping Paul in this one?


	7. The Strongest Number

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a bit short and it's been a long time! I do not find it very easy to write George for some reason.  
> However, happy birthday dear George! Rest in peace...

George followed John’s lead as he headed briskly down the hall; he wasn’t entirely sure where he was going or what he was doing, but he seemed to be just as nervous as George and all the more restless for it. George glanced sidelong at John’s profile; John returned the glance fleetingly, gave an odd sort of smile and kept on without a word.

‘Where are we going, John?’ asked George, as John turned a second corner and they hurried down a staircase. John made a face.

‘Don’t know,’ he said matter-of-factly, as if the thought hadn’t hit him. ‘All right, Hazzy?’

George opened his mouth to answer but his eye was caught by a blonde maid who gasped as they appeared in the hallway and looked very much as if she wanted to say something to them the closer they came to her. George waited curiously for what it might be, but she simply looked him up and down, turned to John, looked back to George and gazed intently into his eyes as they passed. He offered an awkward smile and she bit her lip; once his back was turned they heard a small squeak and quick retreating footsteps. The corner of John’s mouth twitched, but he swallowed nervously and didn’t mention anything.

‘Do you think Paul’s all right?’ asked George quietly.

‘He’ll be fine,’ said John evenly, as another maid leaned excitedly into the hallway from the doorway ahead.

As the two of them came through it they saw her and a friend, who was clearly not supposed to be in the hotel at all, standing together a few feet away and watching. The friend was wearing a John badge and several silent tears streamed down her cheeks. John turned rapidly into another hallway and down some more stairs.

‘Christ,’ he muttered, and suddenly seizing George’s wrist, he led them both into a tiny supply closet, turned on the light and shut the door. There was just enough room for the two of them to sit with their backs to the wall, and they did.

‘You’d think that England'd suddenly gone 85% female,’ said John. ‘All coming round the corner, like.  _ Hello! _ ’ He mocked the wide eyes and shy smile of several of their female encounters. George chuckled.

‘You do a better job of being them than they do,’ he said dryly.

‘Think I could bed Paul, then?’ John said, fluttering his eyelashes.

‘Bed Paul?’ replied George. ‘He’d have you against the wall before you could try.’

John gave a short laugh. ‘Well…’ he started more soberly, ‘not  _ now _ .’

‘No,’ conceded George. ‘He’s a bit in another place.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘He’s-- I suppose I’m  _ used _ to… you know, punching down his ego and things like that. And it’s just very  _ different _ , seeing him when he’s not quite like that anymore.’

‘He’s not doing so well,’ said John quietly.

George didn’t know how to answer at first; he looked at the ground and John looked at him, and for some reason when he started talking it was hard not to keep going, so he was suddenly telling John about how sure he’d been that Paul could handle it on his own, and his frustration with all the people trying to butt in and personally help, and how crap he thought Paul looked, and how it made him so uneasy having a quite different dynamic, more unstable. John watched him talk seriously; the look on his face was similar to how he would listen in the studio when Paul talked about music. When George had run out of things to say, John turned his knees as well as he could towards him, putting his hand to George’s shoulder.

‘He’s tough, our Paul,’ he said, and hesitated. There was a pause and suddenly the door of the closet they were in swung open. A man with a very shiny mustache stumbled back and stared; John got up quickly and stared right back.

‘What’re you lookin’ at?’ he said, and went past him up the stairs.

‘Sorry, sir,’ said George, standing himself, but the man did not seem to be able to look at him. George followed John up the stairs.

John was waiting when he arrived at the top of the stairs. ‘You know Paul,’ he said, as they set off again, ‘he’s very reluctant to tell you he can’t do something.  _ I _ can go mad, wear my heart on my sleeves as much I’d like, but  _ he’ll _ never come round.’

They turned a corner.

‘Speaking as the resident optimist in this band,’ he continued loftily, and George laughed -- ‘I’d like to say you’re lucky the bastard didn’t wait till we were singing to start vomiting all over that lovely microphone you share with him.’

‘Brian would go to pieces,’ remarked George.

‘Yes, he would, but Ringo would keep drumming.’

George found himself grinning.

\----

Ringo happened to be laying his socks out to dry in his and Paul’s room when John and George burst cheerfully back in, carrying bread, chips and tea. John looked as though he had been caught in a rainstorm; George was perfectly dry.

‘Is Paul asleep?’ asked George quickly. He and John emptied their arms of food and drink and made their way towards him.

‘Not really,’ replied Paul. ‘Where did you go?’

‘The usual places,’ said John lightly as Paul sat up.

‘Starting with your typical hotel supply closet,’ added George. ‘But we got kicked out of that.’

‘We only left the hotel because George was getting a bit rowdy,’ John said. ‘Nearly punched a man for ye, Paul!’

‘Oh, that’s marvellous.’

John and George quickly distributed the chips and tea, and they spent the rest of the evening talking and laughing amongst themselves. Paul managed a few chips and a cup of tea, and by the time it was dark he was sleeping soundly again, with the three others all dropped off around his bed. Four was, as John said, the strongest number.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope it didn't feel too rushed in this chapter. It'll be back to a long and more edited chapter next, which I intend to have out on 1 March along with two other standalone stories, one taking place shortly before the breakup and the other my first non-Beatles story!  
> The next chapter will include plenty of time with George and Paul and it will get a bit intense I'm hoping but also sweet.  
> Let me know what you think in the comments please!


	8. You'll Never Walk Alone

Something was nagging George as he woke up again, head still pounding lightly. He opened his eyes and glanced around in the semidarkness. Ringo had finally managed to drop off and was snoring quietly from under a blanket. At the foot of Paul’s bed, half of John’s face glowed, lit up in the moonlight. He was halfway off the bed but fast asleep; clearly neither the light nor the awkward position was bothering him. George’s gaze wandered over to Paul’s pillow; with a jolt, he realised that the bed was unoccupied and Paul was nowhere to be seen.

George sat up quickly in the dark, trying to see that Paul had not simply rolled over and out of sight. In an instant he became aware of a faint sound his ears had been picking up and swore under his breath; from across the suite he could hear the awfully familiar noise of a McCartney retch.

Found him. Fuck.

He sat there wondering for second whether he’d be able to go to sleep again, what with this headache remaining stubbornly present and the news that Paul was once again gagging up shite. Somehow now that George had noticed the sound of the expulsions it was very difficult to ignore them. He couldn’t fathom in this instant why on earth anyone would pay good money and swoon over listening to Paul McCartney.

Finally, George sighed and stood up, wincing at the shakiness of his own arms as they pushed him up. He could get a good rest if only the damn headache would disappear. Perhaps he should just get into the empty bed and find a good position to fall asleep; but no, he could still hear Paul sounding miserable.

A light was glowing from the crack beneath the door to the toilet as George approached it, bumbling around the dark, unfamiliar shapes of furniture. He stepped on a floorboard which creaked and Paul, who had been panting and murmuring something, went quiet very abruptly, apparently listening.

‘Hello, Paul?’ George called in a low voice.

‘Oh,’ Paul said. He sounded tired and a bit hoarse. ‘Hi, George.’

After a short silence George could hear him beginning to be sick again. He winced, pulled open the door and slipped silently inside, passing casually by the shaking, quite occupied figure on the floor to look out the window. It was a pretty night, the clear sky dotted with bright stars and the air blowing in slightly salty from the sea. It could have been Hamburg, or home, if he closed his eyes.

When Paul had been quiet for about a minute George turned around to see him with eyes closed, leaning uncomfortably over the bowl still with his fingers in his own damp hair.

‘All right, Paul?’ he asked quietly.

Paul swallowed, his eyes still closed. ‘Still fucking  _ hurts _ .’

George watched him thoughtfully for a moment and remembered the look in John’s eyes when they’d been talking about Paul just hours ago. _He's tough, our Paul..._ I _can go_ _mad, wear my heart on my sleeves as much I’d like, but_ he’ll _never come round._ He smiled, gave Paul a gruff pat on the shoulder and went to get him a glass of water.

Paul thanked George and politely sipped it a couple times when he returned with the glass and then set it on a small stool by the sink, attempting a smile. It occured to George that perhaps the water was only making it worse. They were quiet for what felt like an endless minute or two, then Paul found a way to break the silence.

‘Is it cold to you?’ he asked, standing up. George looked up.

‘Sure,’ he answered, then nodded towards the window. ‘You can close it if you want to.’

Paul stepped around George’s knee and closed the window with a satisfying  _ clunk _ . He latched it closed, stepped around George again, and settled back down in his spot, letting out a deep breath. His hands clenched in his lap, however, and George looked down at the ground. Paul clearly wasn’t going to last long however strong his will, going from the unsteadiness with which he was taking breaths. Indeed he only held out a few moments before muttering a quick warning apology to George, wrenching himself around and being violently sick in the toilet. His whole body seemed to choke in disappointed disgust.

George sat back on his heels and watched the back of Paul’s shirt for a few minutes, letting him get the worst out. Then he adjusted himself forward and hesitantly lay a comforting hand on his back. It was quite hot-- his first reaction was the instinct to pull his hand away. He swore under his breath; apparently Paul had heard him, because he laughed.

‘What’s wrong, Hazzy?’

George felt his face. ‘You’re burning, Paul.’

‘It’s a bit of a drag,’ Paul said, with a little sadness and frustration. He was cut off rudely and held himself slightly higher over the toilet; George nodded and put his hand on Paul’s back again, expecting the heat this time.

‘Easy, Paul,’ he said quietly. There were a few more retches and then, having got unfortunately acclimatised to their situation, George let himself look into Paul’s face. He was a bit pink from heat and exertion, but it struck George somehow that his eyes looked quite green compared to the normal hazel. Paul bit his lip and resumed his previous position, a hand in his hair. He was trying to take deep breaths, but breathing had become a bit uneven, almost as if he were crying. He pulled away bitterly, wiped his mouth, and sat back against the sink cupboard, looking utterly disappointed with the situation. He did not flinch when George put a gentle hand to his hair, running his fingers through it soothingly; it was soft but slightly damp from sweat.

‘This is what my mother always does,’ George murmured, a little too thoughtlessly.

Paul averted his eyes, breathing quite shakily. There was a beat, and then, suddenly realising, George felt like he could have kicked himself. Paul did not tend to be outwardly touchy about the subject, but George had  _ been _ there to see him going through hell when his mother had died. Of course he had been fucking thinking about her. He was feeling shitty; he was lonely; she had been a nurse, and his mother.

‘Sorry, Paul. God… I wasn’t thinking -- it just-- fucking Christ, Paul…’

‘It’s fine, Geo.’ Paul’s tone was kind, but his voice was very distant.

George bit his lip and sighed. He continued to run his fingers gently through Paul’s dark hair, trying to think of something else to say. Soon, however, Paul was up again and being shaken roughly as he let whatever was left into the toilet again; George supported him quietly. His eyes were looking markedly green now, and he was blinking every now and then as if to get rid of tears, though George couldn’t see any. He could see Paul beginning to let some discomfort and fear into his expression, however, which was rare. To let that show meant he was losing control fast.

Paul began shaking several minutes in. At first George thought it was just a momentary chill, perhaps a little longer, but it was beginning to have lasted quite a while. George sighed and ran a hand through the back of his hair again. He had learnt in Hamburg when Paul was particularly drunk how he hated to be rubbed on the back when he was sick, even if he liked a hand there. When he had finished he had nearly punched John in the face, but he had missed and just staggered away to a wall.

George reckoned this had been the longest ongoing period for Paul all day. It felt like it had been forever but the uncontrollable shudders and awkward, fruitless gags just kept coming. He wondered how much longer Paul could hold out: he already looked exhausted and every now and then he would let out a little, hoarse noise as if in protest.

George realised with surprise after some time that Paul was actually starting to break down into tears. He had never before allowed himself to cry in front of George or, as far as George knew, John or Ringo. But neither had he been sick for such a prolonged time, caused a concert to be called, nor collapsed while sober. His eyes seemed to react to tears by going that bright green colour.

Paul turned his head embarrassedly when the first tears fell, but George acted much the same as before and so he soon became less tense.

Paul struggled for a few seconds and then choked out a strangled sort of sob.

‘I thought it was going to get better,’ he gasped frustratedly. George looked back at him curiously. ‘I was supposed to be fine, we were going to sing and all that, but it wasn’t and I made us cancel and I can’t stop now-- who called  _ this _ getting better?’ He was shaking again, flushed in the face and breathing hard. ‘God, I’m sorry, George.’

George didn’t say anything, but he didn’t take a hand off Paul and rather let him be sick again, staying patiently kneeled down on the floor. It did not last much longer after that. George let him slump back against the wall and got up himself; he pulled the chain and went to the kitchen to pull out a cloth for Paul to clean himself up with. Paul took it gratefully and George gave him time while he went to get himself a glass of water, just to take up the time.

When he returned, Paul was looking decidedly more like himself, the only trace of tears remaining being that his eyes still looked remarkably green; his expression was much calmer and he was breathing more normally now.

‘I wanted to say,’ said George, kneeling down to sit on the floor again, ‘I think if you hadn’t stopped the show we’d be dead tired at the next one. It was about time for a break. None of us minded.’

Paul gave a twisted smile. ‘Lucky thing I couldn’t say no, then, I suppose,’ he said.

‘Yes, you were too busy.’

There was silence for a few minutes, then Paul said: ‘I hope you weren’t coming for the toilet.’

‘No,’ confirmed George, smiling slightly. ‘I would have found another one.’

‘That figures!’

‘You know,’ said George after some hesitation, ‘John caught you when you went down.’

There was a pause.

‘I know,’ said Paul.

‘You should’ve seen how fast he moved.’

Paul rested his chin in his hand. ‘He knew I was gone before I did,’ he said. ‘Last thing I remember, everything started to go sort of tilted -- I thought I could handle it, you know, but he started looking at me and half a second later it was all spinning… and then suddenly the first clear thing back was: oh, there’s John. He’s got me. Only really came round after Rings had me, though.’

‘He’s a nice fellow,’ commented George.

‘Yeah,’ remarked Paul. ‘Terrible drummer, though. We should ask him kindly to switch with John.’

‘Oh, he’s gone off his head now…’

‘Not at all! The idea makes me sick.’

‘Apparently.’

\-----

By two o’clock, George had fallen asleep again, right there on the floor next to Paul. He didn’t look very comfortable, but Paul had been kneeling over the toilet again when he heard the first soft snores, so he hadn’t done anything. After he was finished, however, he adjusted George slightly and looked at him. His head was tilted awkwardly onto the floor; Paul took off his socks and shirt and wrapped them up, then set the package under George’s head. That looked better.

It was three-thirty when he finally felt confident in his ability to go to sleep without suddenly being sick all over John’s head. He pulled the chain and had some of the water that George had brought, then looked quizzically at his companion, still sprawled on the floor with Paul’s clothing under his cheek. Paul weighed the options in his head. He could leave him there, perhaps bring in a blanket or something; he could try to pick him up, but he wasn’t sure he had the strength. If he woke someone up, it would be John; but he would probably grumble.

Paul knelt down. With a guilty pang, he noticed that it looked as if George was becoming ill as well. He might as well try and lift him, as a small gesture for everything George had done that night. He found that it wasn’t too hard at first, though he definitely sensed that his arms were more likely to give out than usual. Finally he stood up and, breathing carefully and trying not to shake, he walked quietly into John and George’s empty room. It was a relief to set his companion down, but he forced his arms to lift his legs again and stretch the covers over him before returning to his own bed. He would have to remember to warn the others in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! As always, I do appreciate comments.


End file.
